A Jensen Family Christmas Read online

  Smoke came up to the team and looked at the man over the horses’ backs. Seeing the bloody stripes on their hides from the quirt just angered him more.

  But before he could say anything, the man in the fur coat demanded, “Who do you think you are, assaulting my man that way?”

  “He attacked me,” Smoke said. “I just stopped him from doing it. If you really care about him, mister, you ought to be thankful. I could have killed him.”

  “You reckon so, do you?” asked the man holding the team. “Pedro’s pretty fast on the draw.”

  Smoke looked over at the man, who was tall and rangy, with a lantern jaw and a thatch of straw-like hair poking out from under his hat. His voice held an unmistakable Texas drawl.

  “I think there’s a pretty good chance he wouldn’t have been fast enough,” Smoke said, “but I guess when you get right down to it, you never know until the time comes, do you?”

  “No, I reckon not,” the Texan said, sounding a little amused.

  “What do you want?” The question came from the man in the fur coat. “What right have you to interfere in my affairs?”

  “I wanted you to stop beating these poor horses,” Smoke said. “You had no right to do that.”

  “They are mine to do with as I please! They failed to stand still when they stopped, as they have been trained to do. They could have caused me to fall and be injured!”

  “Seems to me like you’re mad because you’re embarrassed about almost falling. Nobody thought a thing about it, mister, and it’s sure no reason to hurt these animals.”

  The man raised the quirt, and the hand holding it shook a little from the depth of the anger he felt. He looked like he wanted to come around the horses and slash at Smoke himself, but his feet stayed on the ground, as if planted there.

  “Hinton,” he said through clenched teeth, “I want you to take out your gun and shoot two of these beasts.”

  The Texan frowned and said, “I don’t know, Don Sebastian. They’re pretty good horses, and they cost a pretty penny. Seems like sort of a waste—”

  “I told you, take out your gun and kill two of them!”

  Smoke looked over at the rawboned Texan, thought about what the man in the fur coat had called him, and said, “That wouldn’t be Travis Hinton, would it? From Big Spring?”

  “Might be.” Hinton’s eyes narrowed. “Do we know each other?”

  “We’ve never crossed trails,” Smoke said, “but I’ve heard of you.”

  Hinton probed a tooth with his tongue for a second and then asked softly, “Have I heard of you before, amigo?”

  “Maybe. The name’s Smoke Jensen.”

  There might have been a little surprise in Hinton’s pale gray eyes, just for a second, or there might not have been. Smoke couldn’t really tell. But then the man’s thin lips curved slightly in a smile and he said, “Yeah, I’ve heard of you, all right.”

  “Are you going to stand there and talk all day, or are you going to kill these horses like I told you to?” Spittle flew from the man’s mouth as he practically screamed the words. “Or must I do it myself?”

  He yanked open his fur coat and started to reach inside it.

  CHAPTER 3

  Smoke stiffened, knowing the man was going for a gun. At the same time, Hinton let go of the team’s harness and moved back a half step to give him room to reach the revolver holstered on his hip. Smoke knew without looking that all the other gun-wolves on horseback around him were ready to draw and fire, as well. All it would take for the shooting to start would be for him to pull his own iron. Given how outnumbered he was, they would probably kill him. . . .

  But he would get lead in Don Sebastian first, and maybe Travis Hinton, too.

  Before anyone could draw, a woman’s voice cut through the frigid air, calling, “Sebastian, mi amor. What is wrong?”

  The man stopped what he was doing before the gun came out from under his coat. He seemed to force himself to relax, and he put an unconvincing smile on his face as he turned to greet the woman who had called out to him.

  “Mariana, dearest, I thought you stopped at the store.”

  “I did,” the young woman said. She had come to a stop on the boardwalk. Smoke was a little surprised to see that Sally was with her, as well as an older Mexican woman. “But then I heard all the shouting, and it sounded like there might be trouble. I was worried about you, Sebastian.”

  From the corner of his eye, Smoke saw Travis Hinton make another conciliatory gesture to the men on horseback. Hinton had a reputation as a fast, ruthless gun for hire, but clearly, he didn’t want a shoot-out on Big Rock’s main street this morning. On that much, at least, Smoke agreed with him.

  The feeling of impending violence in the air eased slightly. “There is no reason for you to be concerned,” the man in the fur coat told the young woman. “A minor disagreement, that is all.”

  “I don’t reckon it was so minor to those horses,” Smoke said. “They’re the ones bleeding.”

  For a second, Don Sebastian’s lips drew back from his teeth in a snarl. Then he controlled his anger and snapped at Hinton, “See to it that the horses are well cared for. Spare no expense.”

  “Of course, Don Sebastian,” Hinton said.

  Sally asked, “Is everything all right, Smoke?”

  He nodded and said, “Sure.”

  The young woman looked over at Sally and asked, “The two of you know each other?”

  “I should say so. Doña Mariana, this is my husband, Smoke Jensen.”

  She smiled at Smoke. She was a very attractive young woman to start with, he noted, and the smile made her more so.

  “Señor Jensen, your wife is charming.”

  “Yes, I know that better than anyone, I suppose.” Even though all hell had been on the verge of breaking loose mere moments earlier, Smoke’s natural politeness made him reach up—with his left hand—and remove his hat. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, señora.”

  Sally said, “Smoke, this is Doña Mariana Aguilar.”

  Still smiling, the woman said, “I see you have already met my husband.”

  Smoke looked over the backs of the team again and said, “We haven’t been formally introduced.”

  By now, Travis Hinton had climbed onto the driver’s box and taken up the reins. He got the team moving and drove the carriage out from between Smoke and the man in the fur coat. Standing there stiffly, the man gave Smoke a curt nod.

  “I am Don Juan Sebastian Aguilar,” he said. “Now we have been introduced, Señor Jensen.”

  Even though Smoke didn’t like Aguilar and knew he never would, he supposed it wouldn’t hurt anything for him to unbend a little. Often it took the bigger man to make the first move.

  “What brings you to Big Rock, Señor Aguilar?” he asked.

  “Business,” the man replied, but his wife said, “We have come to take possession of our new home, Señor Jensen.”

  Smoke glanced at Sally, who gave him a tiny shrug to indicate that she didn’t really know what was going on, either.

  “You bought property around here?” he asked Aguilar.

  “That was not necessary. It is mine by right.”

  Now Smoke was really confused. He said, “As far as I know, all the land around here has been bought and filed on properly. That wasn’t the case when Sally and I got here. In fact, the whole valley was open range. But that’s not the way it is anymore, and I hadn’t heard about anybody putting their place up for sale. Although . . . Wait, you said you didn’t buy a spread.”

  “Mr. Jensen,” Aguilar said, “have you ever heard of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo?”

  The man’s condescending tone put Smoke’s teeth on edge again. He controlled that irritation and said calmly, “Of course I have.”

  “Part of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo specified that—”

  “Talk, talk, talk!” Doña Mariana interrupted her husband. “Sebastian, it is cold out here. Can you and Mr. Jensen not discuss business inside,
somewhere where it is warm?”

  Aguilar jerked a hand toward Monte Carson’s office and said, “I had hoped to speak with the sheriff, since he represents the authorities here in Big Rock.”

  “Monte doesn’t appear to be here,” Smoke said, “or you would have seen him before now. He would have shown up to see what all the yelling was about earlier. He’s probably been called out of town on some law business.” Once again, Smoke told himself to be the bigger man and extend an olive branch, despite his dislike for the man. “Why don’t you come with me over to my friend’s restaurant, and we’ll have some coffee?”

  Travis Hinton had driven the carriage along the street to Patterson’s Livery Stable, where the horses would receive top-notch care. He came back, rubbing ungloved hands together, in time to hear Smoke’s suggestion.

  “That sounds like a good idea to me, Don Sebastian,” the Texas gunman said. “I could use some warmin’ up.” He grinned at Smoke. “You think this friend of yours might have a bottle of whiskey to sweeten that coffee a mite?”

  “Considering that Longmont’s is as much a saloon as it is a restaurant, I think that’s a pretty good bet,” Smoke said.

  “Longmont,” Hinton repeated. He cocked an eyebrow. “Louis Longmont?”

  “One and the same.”

  “Reckon I’ve heard of him, too.”

  “Very well,” Aguilar said. “I will join you, Señor Jensen.”

  “Good,” his wife said. She smiled at Sally. “And you and I will resume our shopping, Señora Jensen?”

  “Might as well,” Sally said. “I still need some things.”

  They turned and headed back down the boardwalk, trailed by the silent older woman in a black coat and dress, as well as by two of Aguilar’s gunmen. Smoke figured their job was to watch over Doña Mariana.

  Smoke held out a hand toward Longmont’s and said, “Right this way, gentlemen.”

  Louis was still standing out in front of his place, holding Smoke’s coffee cup in his left hand. Smoke noticed that Louis’s coat was pushed back a little, so it would have been easier to reach his gun if a fight had broken out. Smoke had no doubt that his friend would have waded right in to back his play.

  Twenty hired guns against Smoke Jensen and Louis Longmont? Those were still such overwhelming odds that both Smoke and Louis probably would have died.

  But there would have been a large number of dead men on the other side, too, and any survivors would have then had to worry about Smoke’s brothers, Luke and Matt, and the old mountain man called Preacher, not to mention Monte Carson, Pearlie and Cal, and all the friends Smoke had across the West who could handle a gun with speed and skill.

  No, sir, it wouldn’t have ended well for them, no matter whether they lived through today or not.

  But, thankfully, that hadn’t happened. Now he could afford to be civil to Don Juan Sebastian Aguilar, and then the man could go on about his business. With any luck, Smoke wouldn’t ever have to see him again.

  “I’m afraid your coffee’s gotten cold, Smoke,” Louis said as Smoke and his two companions walked up. Behind them, the other carriages rolled on up the street toward Patterson’s.

  “You can have your cook warm it up with some more from the pot,” Smoke said, “and pour fresh cups for these two fellows here. Louis, this is Don Juan Sebastian Aguilar.”

  “Señor Aguilar,” Louis said as he nodded politely to the man. “I’m Louis Longmont.”

  Smoke noticed that his friend hadn’t said that the meeting was a pleasure, as Louis nearly always would have, for the sake of politeness, if nothing else. After seeing the way Aguilar treated animals, though, being around him would never be a pleasure for Louis—or Smoke.

  Aguilar returned the nod but just grunted. He had probably noticed the slight but wasn’t going to do anything about it, at least not right now.

  “And this is Travis Hinton,” Smoke went on.

  “We’ve met,” Louis said.

  Hinton tilted his head to the side and said, “We have?”

  “Briefly, about six years ago, down in San Antonio. At a saloon across from the Alamo. That was the night you shot and killed Hank Bedford.”

  “Old Hank . . . ,” Hinton said with what looked like a nostalgic grin. “He was like the third or fourth fella who ever threw down on me. I’ve got to say, though, I don’t recall meeting you that night, Mr. Longmont.”

  “Like I said, our acquaintance was brief. I was part of the game where the incident took place. I believe we’d played only one hand of poker before Bedford accused you of cheating.”

  Hinton’s expression hardened as he said, “Yeah, I remember that, all right. I didn’t take kindly to it.” He paused. “You didn’t happen to agree with him, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t. Hank Bedford was just a poor loser . . . and it cost him his life. That pretty much ended the game, though.”

  “Blood spilled all over the table has got a way of doin’ that,” Hinton said with the cocky grin back on his face. “Now, what’s this I hear about some hot coffee?”

  Louis led the way on inside, and a couple of minutes later, the four men were sitting at a table, with fresh cups of coffee. After being in the cold air outside, they found the warmth inside the building almost oppressive.

  “We were speaking of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo,” Aguilar said. “One of its provisions was that it honored the validity of land ownership originally granted by the king of Spain to those who colonized this land.”

  “Wait a minute, Señor Aguilar,” Louis said. “I believe that provision has been interpreted differently by the Mexican and American governments. There was no blanket validation of Spanish land grants in the treaty.”

  “That is the American . . . interpretation, as you phrase it, Señor Longmont.”

  Smoke said, “I’ve read some about this in the newspapers, too. Isn’t the government in Washington leaving it up to the individual states and territories to figure out, taking the cases one at a time? Seems like I heard that some of the land grants down in Texas and New Mexico have been upheld.”

  “Indeed they have. And now it is time for Colorado to do the right thing, as well, and restore such land to its rightful owners.” Aguilar sipped his coffee and went on, “It may not have seemed like it at the time, but actually, I am glad to have met you today, Señor Jensen. I was going to be calling on you, anyway. In fact, I wanted to speak to the sheriff to ask where I might find you.”

  Smoke suddenly had a bad feeling in his gut. His eyes narrowed as he asked, “Why is that, Señor Aguilar?”

  “Because this ranch you own . . . this so-called Sugarloaf . . . it sits right in the middle of the Aguilar Land Grant.” The man smiled wolfishly. “My land grant.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The MacMurphy Sanitarium, Colorado

  Sleet tapped like little fingers against the window behind Ennis “Doc” Monday, making the slender, gray-haired gambler glad he was inside, where it was warm, instead of out there in the weather on this cold December afternoon.

  Doc had never been one for roughing it. Even in his younger, more adventurous days, he had much preferred the pleasant, comfortable environs of a saloon to being out on the trail somewhere. As far as he was concerned, the outdoors was a necessary evil to be endured while getting from one town to another.

  Now that he was older and his health wasn’t what it once was, he was doubly glad he had no need to venture out into the elements.

  He had been a patient here at the sanitarium for several years, ever since the pain in his gut had gotten bad enough to force him to seek medical help. Dr. MacMurphy had examined him and declared that years and years spent mostly in saloons, breathing thick tobacco smoke, sipping whiskey, and playing cards, had taken a toll on Doc’s innards, and the only real cure was rest, relaxation, and a carefully monitored diet.

  That had sounded like a hellish prescription to Doc, but Ace and Chance Jensen, the two fine young men he had raised from infants after their moth
er passed away while giving birth to them, had convinced him to try staying at the sanitarium for a while.

  To Doc’s surprise, he’d found that he liked it here, and he could afford it—he’d had some very good runs at the poker tables over the years—so he had decided to give it a try. It had been a good decision, as his health had improved . . . for a while.

  He looked down at the cards in his left hand and tightened his grip on the pasteboards as they began to shake slightly. The trembling that had cropped up more and more often over the past year wasn’t as bad when he had something to hold on to and concentrated on that.

  “I believe I’ll take two cards,” he said as he used his other hand to extricate the cards he wanted to get rid of. He tossed them facedown on the discard pile. The motion was smooth, without a quiver, which pleased him. The shaking came and went, seemingly at random, but plagued him often enough that he was glad when he was able to perform some old familiar task without it bothering him.

  For Doc Monday, there was no task older or more familiar than playing poker.

  Banjo Walsh, who had the deal at the moment, sent two more cards Doc’s way. Banjo wasn’t the most deft card handler, because the joints in the fingers of his liver-spotted hands were so stiff they didn’t work right anymore. But this was just a friendly game, so if he fumbled a little and if shuffling and dealing took longer, nobody complained. It wasn’t like he was using the clumsiness as a cover for cheating, as Doc had known some men to do in the past.

  Despite that, Bill Williams, sitting across the table from Doc, often looked a little irritated and impatient when Banjo was dealing. But Williams was always grouchy about something, so Doc didn’t pay much attention to it anymore.

  In Doc’s opinion, Williams didn’t have that much to be annoyed about. He was one of the youngest patients at the sanitarium. His thick dark hair barely had any gray in it. He seemed to be in fairly good health, too. A little shortness of breath at times, and a tendency for a gray tinge to creep over his face when that happened, but other than that, he acted like he felt fine. Williams really shouldn’t even be here, Doc had thought more than once, but it was none of his business who Dr. MacMurphy accepted as a patient.